


The Flames

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Tragic Romance, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 20:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7655626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor and head of the Knights has one job: persecuting witches and feeding them to the flames. But when his duty clashes with his heart, he's left grasping for what he can get before the inevitable dawn of a new day. [Canon-divergence AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Flames

            The Courtroom was always dim, the torches casting a flickering glow upon the walls in a mocking parody of the hellfire its victims—the accused—were always subjected to. The screams of the damned echoed in the antechamber, each pound of the judge’s gavel a death knell that sounded louder than any bell. It was a place of fear and torment; it was a place of measurement where every person that stood behind the accused’s bench was found wanting.

            Inquisitor Zacharias Barnham had always considered it to be a place of fair judgment. After all, each witch was always innocent until proven guilty without a shadow of a doubt. Therefore, it was a place of righteous justice and the physical symbol of his true, innate calling as Inquisitor. To him, the pounding of the gavel signified a peaceful night’s sleep for the citizens of the city he loved, where young children didn’t have to fear witches hiding in the closet. Soon, they wouldn’t even have to fear Bezella sweeping in on a flaming dragon and burning them in their beds. They could have peace everlasting.

            But why now did his iron resolve falter? After all, it was another witch. Guilty beyond doubt—she hadn’t even tried to deny her crimes like so many of her fellow cohorts had. She had even admitted to a few of them, face betraying no shame or remorse for the black magic she’d worked in the world. The entire time he had laid his case against her, calling witnesses and showing evidence, she’d been stalwart and silent. Her expression was one of solemn reflection, not repentance. Therefore, he should have inwardly rejoiced at the judge’s words.

            “It is with a heavy heart that I admit it:  you had us all fooled,” the judge said with a sigh. “Even rising through the ranks as you did… it disgusts me to look back and see how blind we all were. It’s clear now that we must take further measures to prevent something like this from ever happening again,” he continued, more to the gathered assembly than to the accused.

“In any case, I pronounce you, Inquisitor—well, Lady Darklaw—guilty of the crime of witchcraft. Your sentence is, as with all witches, death by the flames.” He pointed the gavel towards the waiting pit, heat shimmering in the dark room above where the red-hot flames licked the air. “With Inquisitor Barnham taking your place in due time, there’s no doubt in my mind that your dark sisters will not be able to slip through the cracks like _you_ did.”

 _I did the right thing. I did the right thing. I did the right thing._ Yet with each repeated utterance in his mind, he felt less and less sure. His heart was slamming against his ribcage, his body frozen in place as he watched two knights move forward to prevent any sort of escape, should she be foolish enough to try. She didn’t attempt to break free of their hold, instead walking forward calmly instead of forcing the knights to drag her kicking and screaming like some witches did. She only paused when she was abreast of the Inquisitor’s bench, turning to regard him with something akin to pride.

“I commend you in your duty, Zacharias.” He’d always enjoyed the way she said his name, her tongue curling around the A and the I, causing it to sound more melodious than it truly was. He was unable to respond and her lips curved up in a small smile, softer than any he’d ever seen on her before. “You presented an ironclad case. I always admired that sort of fortitude in you.”

A million thoughts, words, and scenarios ran through his mind. He suddenly began feeling things he hadn’t allowed himself to before, emotions that he’d kept shoved to the back of his mind for solidarity’s sake. He wanted to leap across the bench and clutch her lithe body to his, he wanted to take her hand and run somewhere, _anywhere_ that they couldn’t find them, he wanted to fight off the knights until he was slain, holding them at bay to protect her; more importantly, he wanted to tell her how his heart was beating hard enough to crack in two.

He wanted to ask _why_ …not why she was a witch, but why she hadn’t been more careful, why she’d allowed someone to find out, why she had let him pave her ruin without a word of protest. Why she hadn’t run before they could find her. Why she hadn’t asked him for help.

Even so, he continued to remain silent and the knights took it as a clear sign that he didn’t wish to speak with the witch that had once served as his superior. They carted her up the moving wooden staircase, one having the decency to steady her arm as she stepped into the swinging iron cage. His breath became unstuck in his throat and he ventured to break a promise he’d once made to her, speaking aloud the name he’d learned on accident and had been hard-pressed to never repeat to anyone on pain of death.

The pain of death was here, but it wasn’t _his_ ; such was the irony of life.

“Eve!” He stepped forward, eyes trained on the slender form standing stoically in the cage, the chains holding it creaking as it swung with her offset weight. Her expressionless face came alive, surprise flitting across her features before she looked down at him. She stepped towards the closed door, tipping as the cage swung forward. Her hands steadied herself on the rings and for a moment her face was tilted towards the flames. An instant of fear wrinkled her brow and she swallowed hard before finding his eyes once more.

“Zacharias,” she called back, her gaze glimmering with something more than tears. “Zacharias, I—” He never heard whatever she was going to say; the lever was pulled, the cage closing before it plunged down into the pit. The flames rose towards the heavens as if offering the soul within to divine punishment before dying back down.

It didn’t matter to him now. The shouts of the knights near him, the cheer of the jubilant crowd as they witnessed the death of another witch; it was all just a roaring in his ears that became an ocean, locking him into place as his heart gave one final slam and cracked into a thousand pieces. It welled up in him, the dark, sloshing waters pushing against his organs and pressing down his lungs until the only thing left to do was to release it in some way. His mouth opened, the horrified scream bursting its way out of his throat like a dam come undone.

“ _EVE_!!”

* * *

They congratulated him, praising him as the new head of the Inquisition, savior of Labyrinthia, defender of women, children, all who were weak against the rising tide of evil magical forces. Outwardly he smiled and allowed the elderly to pinch his cheeks, fellow knights clapping him on the shoulders and ruffling his hair, children clinging to his legs and trying to talk over each other as they claimed that he was their hero. But inside he felt hollow, empty. He was sure that his false grin couldn’t have met his eyes, but no one seemed to notice, or care, that he didn’t share in their joyous tumult.

Normally the citizens would go to bed after a trial, but tonight they seemed keen on staying awake. Perhaps it was because they had vanquished an enemy unlike those that had come before, one who had previously deceived them and caused mayhem from a high position. After all, with Darklaw being a witch, the Storyteller’s very life had been in grave danger! Had she not been one of his closest advisors? Had she not had access to his Tower, even riding on the same platform as him during the Parade? How close they had all been to unbearable tragedy! And while she hadn’t been Bezella, it was still a great victory for humanity, for normalcy, and for Labyrinthia. A celebration for the ages was in order.

The entire town seemed to wake as the word spread. The few citizens who, for some reason or the other, hadn’t been at the Courthouse now poured into the streets with the rest. Bleary-eyed children sat atop their fathers’ shoulders, awakened from their dreams to share in the city’s merriment. A band began playing somewhere near the Square, spontaneous couples breaking from the crowd to dance. No one questioned why the Storyteller himself wasn’t there to revel with them. Usually he was the center of the festivities, no matter what they were, but tonight the town’s mind was focused solely on justice duly served to a woman who had, in all accounts, frightened them senseless even before being singled out as magical.

The impromptu parade piled into the cramped alleys of the slum district, upsetting boxes and trash cans as they squished themselves against grimy brick homes and elbowed each other on their way to their final destination. They shoved themselves into the tavern like sardines in a can, shouting above each other who would be paying for what round. It was quite the racket once everyone who was able had stuffed themselves through the door, and the tavern’s fiery owner was bewildered at the sudden influx of business, but she managed to smile and began shouting her own orders for her regulars to help her serve everyone. Somehow, she made sure the knights were tipsy enough to not care that the men timidly refilling their glasses were the scourge of Labyrinthia’s crime scene.

The party lasted well after midnight, with loud shouting and singing, ballads being made up on the spot in honor of the Storyteller, the Knights, and Barnham himself. Toast after toast was directed to him, everyone too drunk to realize that he hadn’t touched a drop of the ale that Rouge had sat in front of him. He sat on a barstool, both part of the crowd and yet completely detached from everything going on around him. He heard his name on their lips and saw them raising their tankards time and time again, but the rest was a mass of sound and light that he ignored. He felt both inside and outside of his body at the same time; it was almost as though there were two of him, one pushing his body through the motions and keeping a friendly face while he stayed deep within himself.  

When he finally touched back with reality, he had been left standing alone outside of the barracks in the garrison. The torches burned brightly in the yard, despite it being deserted. He barely recollected watching the knights stagger drunkenly through the door of the barracks in search of their cots; he heard a loud burp and some laughter, but the mutters and movement died into heavy snoring as the men settled into bed. One of them extinguished the lanterns (apparently not too plastered to recognize the fire hazard) and the light flickering in the windows turned into darkness.  

He forced his legs to move with a willpower he hadn’t realized he’d possessed, every contraction of his muscles burning through him painfully. He shambled to his private room in the officer’s quarters, stumbling across the threshold. He looked at the threadbare room, so familiar to him. His own cot, a wooden chest of his belongings, Constantine’s bundle of blankets in the corner, the stand to hang his armor on…. His own lamp burned cheerfully on the box that served as his nightstand; he watched the tiny flame dance enticingly on the wick, sending flickering shadows up the walls. Something within him clicked into place and he realized in one horrible, agonizing moment what had happened.

He’d sentenced her to death. She was _gone_ , burned by the fire. She wouldn’t be waiting for him in the office with a stern glare tomorrow, her quill wouldn’t scratch against the parchment anymore, she’d never complain to him about how messy his desk was, she’d never huff at his terribly drawn caricatures of her again—a wave of nausea hit him like a brick and he wheeled around, body heaving. He managed to keep his supper down, shaking as he leaned against the doorframe for support. _What have I done? What have I **done**?! Eve…. _ His fists clenched and he sunk to his knees before holding his head in his hands.

“Eve…” he whispered to the night air, picturing her last moments in an unbearable play-by-play that looped endlessly. Her praise of his performance, his name on her lips, the look on her face as the door closed around her, the strange, yearning expression in her eyes that matched what he’d felt deep down for so long, what he’d pushed back to the depths of his mind in order to keep peace between them, what he’d always thought that she hadn’t reciprocated.

He wouldn’t have turned her in. Part of him was sure of it. He wouldn’t have been able to. A smaller, more knightly part of him reasoned that it was better that someone else had raised the alarm, someone with less of an affection for her, someone who hadn’t been enamored by her beautiful smile and her intelligence, and her courageous resolve. That part whispered that she must have bewitched him, in order to keep him from realizing the truth about her powers. But the other part of him, the part that was his soul, thrummed with the decision that no matter what she had been, witch or human, he would have still loved her for what she was. After all, he loved her now, even as he hated witchcraft.

 _All witches must perish to the flames. That is the only way to keep the town we love safe. To keep Bezella away from everyone else we hold dear. All witches are in league with the Great Witch, aren’t they?_ That dark voice hissed in his mind. _That means that Eve too was aligned with Bezella. She probably whispered the Storyteller’s secrets right into the ear of the Great Witch herself._

 _No_. He couldn’t believe it. There had to be another explanation. After all, he’d seen small girl witches that couldn’t spell Bezella, much less think evil thoughts, to the fire. It was precaution, as today’s child could grow up to be tomorrow’s tormentor. But other witches, truly repentant witches that tried to hide their magic and sobbed as the fire loomed before them, hadn’t hardly seemed capable of the evils that the Great Witch Bezella was capable of. _Surely Eve was also one of these witches, one that didn’t want to be a witch and had to… for the greater good, she had to…. oh, **Eve**. _

He stood on trembling legs, closing the door but not bothering to lock himself in. He began to remove his armor with robotic motions, the process so ingrained into his being that it was automatic. One by one the pieces were shined and put on the dressmaker’s stand; it took time and effort, but it was something that kept him from thinking about everything that had happened. Of what he’d done. What he’d caused.

 Finally the armor that embodied Inquisitor Zacharias Barnham, head of the Knights, stood before him in all its glory. He tugged the checkered tunic over his head, shivering at the feeling of cold night air on his chest. Before him stood the Inquisitor; without the armor, he was merely Zach, man and human, and alone. Zach was no witch hunter, no powerful courtroom figure. He held no sway over the masses. Zach was a quiet man who laughed and loved, whose love was now gone. By the judgment of the people. By the hand of the Inquisitor.

He lay down on top of his blankets, feeling the scratchy material against his back. Leaning back up for a moment, he blew out the lamp; the moon shone down through the window, casting a pale light over the room. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes and facing the darkness behind his own lids. A lump grew in his throat and he tried to force it back, but his mind insisted on flooding pictures of her, every memory of every glance she threw him, every instance of that special, secretive smile that she made when something he did impressed or pleased her, all coupled with the fact that memories were all he had. There would never be new ones made. A tear slid from beneath his lid and he clenched his fists again, gritting his teeth.

 _An Inquisitor, crying for a witch. What a pity._ The dark voice inside him scoffed with malicious sarcasm. _What a waste of good tears. What of the **victims** of witches? What of the revenge spells cast upon cheating lovers, on teasing schoolmates, on innocent parents? You didn’t cry for any of them, did you, Sir Knight? Did you? _

_I didn’t love them. Not like I loved her, at least._

_And did you show that love to her? What wasted opportunities. Still, it’s probably better this way, considering what she was._ He knew without looking that his knuckles were white as Constantine’s fur, the blood leaving his fingers as he clamped them against his palms. His nails dug into the tender flesh, but it was a good pain. It was something outwardly and physical, different from the emotional turmoil that raged within him.

He thought about what he could do. Tomorrow he could go to the Audience Room. The Story couldn’t bring the dead back to life, but maybe the Storyteller could help him bear this pain and guilt. The Storyteller always understood everyone’s problems, listening without judgment and offering solutions through his writing. Surely the man could help him as well. But the only option— that he could think of anyway— would be to ask the Storyteller to help him forget Eve somehow. To write her out of existence forever. No other solution came to mind that would have him both remembering who she was, and remembering why she was gone, without feeling this torment. The problem was that he didn’t _want_ to forget.

He’d never forget her.

* * *

 

He had no recollection of going to sleep; one minute he was contemplating what he could do and whether or not to see the Storyteller in the morning, and the next he was awakened by a creak of the floorboards. His eyes flew open, trying to see in the darkness. The moon was behind a cloud, the torches beyond the window burned down to embers too faint to light the room. He was acutely aware of every sound, as well as of the fact that he’d foolishly kept the lock unlocked on the door. He held his breath, listening for another creak, and he heard the unmistakable sound of another’s soft breathing. Constantine wasn’t barking; he assumed that the pup was shacked up in the stables with the horses for the night instead of coming to his master’s room to sleep. He may have scratched on the door at some point, only to leave after realizing that Barnham had fallen asleep and wouldn’t hear him.

His face felt warm, his forehead tingly, as though someone had—a moment before—been touching him. He wished he’d had his sword, or knew exactly where his lamp was in the dark. Fumbling for a light would give the intruder time to escape, if he heard the movement. He wished he had the speed to jump from the bed and tackle the person, if only to find out whether they were friend or foe. But the bedsprings creaked loudly and he didn’t want to risk the person bolting. It might only be a Knight, coming to see about him for some reason or another. Or, more likely, it was one of the captains with a late night emergency. Why then was he afraid to call out, as though some part of him just _knew_ that whoever was in the room would run?

The cloud before the moon rolled away, revealing the room slowly. First the floorboards, loud in their own way, then traveling boots, peeking beneath a cloak. The material was a dark plum color, blending in with the midnight shadows as easily as a specter’s robes might. The form, as it was revealed, froze in the moonlight and he saw that it was a distinctly feminine shape, the shapeless garment catching on the curve of the hip and the bust, the billowing sleeves highlighting thin wrists and slender hands that were raised in an instinctive defensive gesture. The face was halfway cast in shadow, but the strands of hair pooling from beneath the hood, as well as the thin nose and the two bright eyes shining from the darkness, were as familiar to him as his own reflection.

For a moment he stared at the figure, and it stared back, neither of them speaking. It remained still as a statue, almost as though afraid to move, and his breath was caught in his throat. He tried to comprehend what was before him, _who_ was before him, _how_ she could be standing in his bedroom. For a moment he wondered if he had fell into madness, driven by the grief of losing her to the flames. In the next, she inhaled a quick gasp and he heard the sharp tone that was distinctly her _voice_ , though she said no words.

“E-Eve?” he whispered, hoping and yet not daring to hope. He knew she’d hate him calling her by her first name, had hated him even learning what it was, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter anymore. He realized that if he was indeed mad, this was the epitome of paradise, being able to freely see what he thought he wouldn’t be able to cast eyes on again. But would seeing her be enough? Would she be tangible to the touch, or a ghost that would plague him night and day with her presence, always just beyond grasp?

At the sound of her name, the being that took Eve’s shape floundered back into life, turning on her heel and making for the door as silently as a running gait could be. His body moved of its own accord, almost without his comprehension of the movement. He rolled from the bed onto his feet, the lack of blankets making it far easier than it would have been had he went to bed properly. He crossed the room in two long strides, hands reaching out for the cloak. He surprised himself as he grabbed the figure, drawing it close as he wrapped his arms around her. He _could_ touch her, and clutched her close to him as tight as he dared. His arms wrapped completely around her little frame, his chin buried in her shoulder.

“How?” he asked softly, near where he estimated her ear would be. The body in his grasp had stiffened, but suddenly relaxed and leaned into him with a submissive gesture, as though it had been fighting the urge. There was a pause, and then the voice he’d longed to hear spoke out in the darkness, only slightly louder than his own had been.

“I’m a dream.” A dream? _Of course_ , he thought. How else would she be here? This was one of those odd, fanciful dreams where one was in full control, yet still subject to the whims of their own mind.

“I’m dreaming?” he repeated, just to be sure. The hood moved as she nodded quickly.

“Yes.” She hesitated, then turned slightly in his arms so that she could look up at him. The hood fell back and he saw her just as she had been in life, only without the tight plait that she usually sported. Her hair was loose and hung around her face in long tendrils. “It’s only a dream, Zacharias. I’m… I’m going now.”

“No,” he begged, arms tightening. “If it’s my dream, at least stay. I want to talk to you… I don’t want to say goodbye yet. I’m not ready. Even if you’re Eve’s spirit, or just what I remember about her… please. Stay.” Again she hesitated, and he could see a battle raging in her eyes as she thought. Finally she licked her lips and nodded.

“I will stay. For a while, at least. But I have to leave at dawn.” He nodded and drew her towards the bed. He sat on the edge, pulling her down to sit next to her. She went along compliantly, not fighting him as he moved her close enough that their knees touched. He let her hand lie loosely in his and she didn’t try to remove it, her fingers brushing his lightly. After a moment, she scooted even closer and pressed her body against his, bending her head forward so that her hair impeded his view of her face.

“Now, Zacharias.” She breathed his name almost reverently, and he felt something stir in his chest at the sound. “Let’s talk.”

 


End file.
